


A house in the country

by PlainJane



Series: Where we live [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, American Politics, Anal Sex, Bonding, British Politics, Complete, Consensual, Frottage, Gender Issues, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Sexual Equality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With new "real rape" laws in place, every unbonded omega is at risk, including Sherlock Holmes. He needs someone to help protect him and hide his true nature, but John Watson may be more of a problem than a solution.</p><p>Added: Cover art</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“This is ridiculous, Sherlock,” Mycroft Holmes said wearily. He poured himself a second cup of coffee, glancing up at his brother at the distant far end of the ornate dining table. “You know this is not a long-term solution.”

“Don’t care.” Sherlock snapped. He sat stiffly, legs crossed, in the high-backed chair in his brother’s formal dining room. He knew eating in the dreary, dark-panelled space fed his brother’s ‘Lord of the Manor’ complex, but Sherlock had far too much on his mind to consider mocking him for it this morning. “May I stay here or not?”

Mycroft sighed. He took a long sip from his cup, leaning back as his personal wait staff appeared to remove his plate. He nodded in acknowledgement of the young woman’s presence and waited patiently as she passed Sherlock on her way back out of the room.

 _Egg white omelette and sliced tomatoes_ , Sherlock noted from the plate as it went by. _Still dieting, then._

The two men regarded each other warily. The older—neatly attired in a conservative, navy, pinstriped, three-piece suit—ran a hand over his closely cropped hair. The shadows under his eyes betrayed another spate of late nights and considerable stress. The younger man also wore a suit, though more modern and of a slimmer cut. It was rumpled and had clearly been slept in. His dark curls were untidy and the fresh laceration on his cheek was evidence of yet another altercation with some member of London’s criminal underclasses.

“Of course you may stay here, brother,” Mycroft replied finally. “This is as much your home as it is mine. Our parents left it to both of us.”

Sherlock snorted, thinking back to the day the dispensation in the will had made them co-owners of the family seat in Kent. "Our parents left it to both of us because they didn’t trust me to inherit anything on my own.” The bitterness was still present in his tone, he knew, though blunted by many years and a spell in rehab that had provided a certain clarity with regard to the elder Holmes’ actions. “You could simply move to the London house they left to you alone and allow me to use this place as needs be.”

“I could,” Mycroft agreed. “Perhaps one day…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please yourself, then. It makes no difference. I need somewhere to retreat to every 63 days. It’s not safe for me in town. Not anymore.”

Mycroft nodded. “You know I did my utmost to prevent this. It became a choice between blocking this ridiculous legislation and protecting other initiatives that I could not afford to jeopardise—to reveal them would have put a significant number of lives at risk and had dramatic repercussions for the country,” he said almost apologetically. “I realize how unfair it must seem, but with any luck it will not last long. It was not a popular decision by this government. Once an election is called—”

“Yes, perhaps as long as two years from now. What am I meant to do in the meantime?”

“If I could find you an agreeable alpha, someone who would not annoy you or interfere with your work, simply as a means of getting around…”

“No.” Sherlock ground his teeth once again at the injustice of being the only omega born into the Holmes family in over a century. And at such a time.

“It wouldn’t have to be an emotional bond. And we could have it broken as soon as possible,” Mycroft persisted. “It would keep you safe.”

 _Safe_ , Sherlock mused. A curious choice of words considering the situation he and all other omegas now found themselves in.

It had all started in America.

Following a particularly rancorous presidential race fought on issues of reproductive and gender rights, the incumbent had championed a new law decriminalizing the act of rape where the victim was an unbonded omega. Unable to get around the 28th amendment, which proclaimed equality for omegas and guaranteed their legal right to determine their own reproductive status, the conservative right had opted for a roundabout means of “restoring the natural order” by forcing all breeders into “safe”, socially acceptable, monogamous bonds.

The alpha community, of course, had been vocal in its support of the new law—alphas had long argued it was inhumane and unjust to charge their kind with a crime for doing what their instincts dictated, particularly during heats. Besides, they reasoned, any omega not “taking care of their business” had no right to complain if someone else did it for them.

The beta community, many of whom had marched alongside omegas during the gender equality movement in the ‘60s, was conspicuously silent. It wasn’t until many months later that the reason became clear: an additional legislation was passed granting betas—for the first time—the right to permanently bond with and (as possible) breed omegas.

It hadn’t taken long for the radically right-wing British government, obsessed with reversing years of liberal policies they believed had led to any number of social ills (including a declining population as fewer omegas chose to bond and breed), to embrace this new construct. Parliament had passed Britain’s new Real Rape law only three and a half months before.

In addition to putting unbonded omegas at risk from any alpha with a mind to mate, the new law curtailed production of omega therapies and suppressants, and related birth control products. Heat suppressants, particularly, would have to be obtained on a month-to-month basis and would require proof of bond status: only bonded omegas with at least one child would be permitted to suppress their heats. All omega-related drugs were redefined as controlled substances.

For Sherlock Holmes, the law represented a final insult added to the injury inflicted by the biology he despised.

Mycroft had given him plenty of warning, of course. Generally Sherlock ignored politics, but he had heard rumblings. His brother’s concern worried him, though—somehow he had refused to believe it would actually happen, but if Mycroft was powerless to prevent such a thing he knew it was time to begin preparing.

With the help of his homeless network and several favours called in, he had been able to stockpile enough hormone therapy to continue masking his scent when not in heat for at least another eighteen months. And he had begun looking into the possibility of relocating (16 countries still had comprehensive omega rights legislation—he didn’t want to leave London, but he knew it was purely practical to have a contingency plan).

The heat suppressants, though, were the issue. Chemists had run out of supply weeks in advance of the law being passed as the manufacturers had already begun slowing production. And Sherlock had not been lucky.

He’d managed to get by his first heat—which would have hit within weeks of the new law—on what he could obtain from illegal sources, but as the police cracked down on the distribution of omega-related drugs it had become increasingly difficult to find enough on the streets. He had even attempted to obtain the raw materials to manufacture a suppressant of his own design, only to discover that the government was tracking the sales of these as well.

The heat that had followed (his first since presenting at 14) had been agonizing. He had been woefully unprepared: no sexual aids, not enough food or water.

Suffering hour upon hour of writhing desperation should have been punishment enough, but following a break-in that had terrified Mrs. Hudson (and that could have ended very badly for him in his weakened state had it not been for the timely arrival of some of his brother’s minions), it had become clear his security arrangements at 221B were not going to be enough to deter a frenzied alpha. And he simply could not completely contain his pheromone trail.

“I wish I could do more,” Mycroft added, standing and tugging at his waistcoat. “I would if you would let me.”

Sherlock stood as well. “I will not allow my life to be dictated to me. I am forced to cope with the biology I have been dealt, but I do not have to accede to it. I refuse to be owned. I do not want to be bonded to some knot-head. I do not want children—”

“Sherlock, you’ve always loved children,” Mycroft reminded him, ignoring the alpha slur. “They are the only members of the human race I have ever seen you treat with complete equanimity.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to be a parent,” Sherlock snapped. “Honestly, can you imagine me with an infant? Between crime scenes and my experiments it would be a miracle if my child survived the first year." He scowled. “No. I choose. No one else. I will not be bullied into bonding. The law may grant alphas the right to take what they want, but I will not be driven by fear.”

“But if you could find someone decent," Mycroft tried again, stepping in close. “Someone you could…care…about, the way I do Gregory—it doesn’t just have to be about this infernal law. It might do you good to have a partner. Someone to help you, support you.”

“And you think I’m likely to find an alpha like that anywhere?” Sherlock scoffed. “Your kind, brother dear, is hardly predisposed to that sort of behaviour. I realize you are unaware of the intricacies of these relationships, having been in a civil union with a beta for eight years, but believe me when I tell you that I have yet to meet an alpha that has any desire or inclination to ‘help’ or ‘support’ an omega. We are sexual beings only, as far as most of your lot is concerned. It was difficult enough to get Scotland Yard to work with me as a civilian. If I am outed as an omega? They would have nothing to do with me at all, even with your Lestrade.”

“Speak of the devil…” a deep voice chuckled.

Mycroft smiled a little as his husband appeared in the doorway. “And he appears,” he finished. Gregory Lestrade entered the room and proceeded to kiss Mycroft good morning. “You’re up early.”

“I know I said I would take the weekend after last night’s excitement,” Greg offered, tweaking the taller man’s chin. A standoff with a serial killer had seen him arriving at the country house with Sherlock after two that morning. “But I just got another call. Kidnapping.”

Mycroft looked irritated. “Isn’t there anyone else?”

“There is,” Greg grinned. “But no one as good as me.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth. “True enough. Well, then, I suppose we can ride back into town together. I was going to leave my meeting notes until Monday, but I may as well pick them up after I drop Sherlock at 221B.”

Greg turned to the younger man. “Morning. How’s the face?”

Sherlock shrugged.

Greg tried to look cheerful. “Look, I know this law business has got you down, but I’m sure they’ll come to their senses. There’s got to be an election soon…”

“Please don’t feel the need to patronize me,” Sherlock drawled. “It will not change anything.”

Greg and Mycroft exchanged a look. “Fine. Just as you like,” Greg conceded. Then he asked Mycroft, “Did you two have the chat Sherlock wanted?”

“We did,” Mycroft replied. “My brother will come to Coventry Court for his heats for the foreseeable future. The security enhancements I’ve had installed will provide a safe haven for him until this law can be repealed.”

“Good,” Greg said, clapping his hands together. “So in a month you’ll come here and we’ll stay in town. All sorted.”

“As sorted as it can be,” Sherlock said sombrely.

Sherlock collected his coat from the chair he’d thrown it over when he’d come downstairs. He pulled it on, feeling somewhat relieved.

Greg wrapped an arm around his brother-in-law’s shoulders as they made their way to the front door. Sherlock schooled himself not to recoil. He disliked being touched in general however he had discovered that he did _not_ dislike his brother’s mate and so had learned to allow some affection on the older man’s part.

“It’ll all turn out well, Sherlock,” Greg said. “You’ll see.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson needs a job. And a place to live. Mycroft Holmes is about to make him an offer he can't refuse.

John stood in the middle of the dark, empty warehouse waiting for something to happen.

He glanced back into the shadows at the black saloon that had just delivered him. The young beta female who’d accompanied him was still engaged on her mobile. There was no one else in sight.

It was, by far, the strangest job interview he’d ever had.

He was about to make his way back to the car when someone spoke.

“You are an unbonded alpha.”

John started, swivelling to try and find the source of the statement. “Yes,” he replied cautiously. “Is that a requirement for the position?”

“It is,” the man answered, emerging from the shadows in front of John. He was tall, obviously alpha and immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit, with an umbrella in his right hand. He watched John without expression, waiting—John supposed—for him to make the next move.

“If this has anything to do with forced breeding, you can forget it,” John said emphatically. He waited for a moment, but when the tall man declined to respond, John started to turn.

“Dr. Watson, please wait.” The man took a step forward. “I apologize for the manner of our meeting and for the ambiguity.” He cleared his throat. “This is a very sensitive matter and I had hoped to keep it quiet. But I assure you I am not looking for an alpha for…that.”

“Understood,” John replied. “Why are you looking for an alpha in particular, then? Mike Stamford said only that you were looking for a personal physician.”

“Dr. Stamford was kind enough to bring you to my attention. I am in need of someone with your very particular skills, as it happens,” the man replied.

“Which bit?”

“The lot,” the man said with a tight smile. He produced a smart phone from his breast pocket and began to read. “You are a surgeon with a specialty in trauma and you were top of your class at Bart’s. And you were a soldier—twice decorated, excellent marksman.”

John nodded. “So, Mr.—”

“Holmes. Mycroft Holmes.”

“So, Mr. Holmes, what do you need all that for?”

“I have a younger brother. He’s an omega—”

“No,” John snapped and turned once more.

“Please, hear me out,” Mycroft asked. “I know what it sounds like, but I can assure you I have no intention of forcing my brother to bond or breed. In truth, I have given up trying to force him to do anything at all.”

John hesitated. “Then why do you need me?”

“My brother is a detective of sorts. He consults with private clients and with Scotland Yard. He leads a relatively dangerous life and has a tendency to value his own well being at naught. He is extremely intelligent and so, unfortunately, has no patience for those who are not. No people skills.” Mycroft paused. “He needs someone who can patch him up—he is injured with alarming regularity. He also needs an assistant. Someone clever who can act as something of an interpreter and who can protect him, from others and from himself. In this case, your medical training and familiarity with violent injury could be beneficial to his work. Your military training and experience, certainly, would be invaluable. And as an alpha, your presence would serve to dissuade others.”

“He’s never shown an interest in bonding, then.”

Mycroft shook his head. “He’s lived on suppressants for years, but now…”

John nodded, his jaw tightening as he thought of the new rape laws. “How do you know I won’t take advantage?”

“Your sister is an omega, is she not?”

John’s brow furrowed. “Was. How do you know that?”

“I occupy a minor position in the British government. The omega registry does not require a high-level clearance,” the man replied. “I know…”

“You know that following a youthful indiscretion involving underage drinking, my sister was force-bonded to an alpha who sexually tortured her for the better part of a decade before he finally killed her. You probably also know that I was the gender relations liaison for my unit in the army and I lobbied repeatedly for changes to regs to better protect serving omegas. You know that I am a very vocal opponent of the Real Rape law.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded, looking at his shoes.

“And you think any of that will protect your brother from me during a heat?” John asked, stunned. “You’re an alpha; you have to know better than that.”

“I—my partner is a beta,” Mycroft admitted reluctantly.

“So you’ve never experienced a heat with an omega.”

“No. Not as such.”

“Well, I have,” John responded. “And I can tell you right now that no matter how noble my intentions might be, _eventually_ nothing short of a steel door and a couple of deadbolts would prevent me from fucking your brother. You’ve never felt it, so you can’t possibly understand how powerful the urge to mate really is. The smell of a ripe omega is more than intoxicating; I think it actually kills alpha brain cells. Thing is, you don’t miss them. You’d happily give them up for a chance to have that again: the stupor from which you never want to emerge. And the look and feel of an omega when their body is completely prepared is the most beautiful thing you will ever know. I can’t even begin to explain it to you if you haven’t experienced it yourself.”

“But you don’t believe in the Real Rape laws?”

“Not because I don’t believe in the power of alpha biology, but because I believe that mating, like anything else, begins with a choice. Alphas have a window of opportunity in which to decide whether or not to proceed. We know when an omega is unwilling; their body may force them to acquiesce, but the scent change is fairly obvious. If we choose to let the frenzy claim us regardless, it’s rape. Plain and simple.”

“My brother has made arrangements to be at a secure location for his heats,” Mycroft said a bit weakly. “You—he—you would go with him, but there is a provision.”

“A provision,” John repeated.

“I’ve prepared the panic room for him. I thought it wise in case, by some fluke, an alpha did find their way inside.”

“Impenetrable? If you’ll pardon the double entendre.”

“Entirely,” Mycroft confirmed, his lips quirking at the doctor’s attempt at humour.

John considered this, weighing the intriguing possibility of some real excitement working with a man who sounded like a bit of a mad genius. He smiled; finally things were beginning to look up.

“In that case, I’ll take it.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft enthused. “My brother has been looking for a flatmate for several months. Financially, it would be beneficial for you both. There is no need for him to know about my involvement.”

“He doesn’t know you’re looking for someone to look out for him?”

“He can be a bit…temperamental—he will resist the idea. But I feel quite certain that once you’ve moved in and he gets to know you, he’ll come around.”

John nodded. “When do I start, then?”

"My assistant will text you the details." Mycroft approached and offered his hand. "It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson."

John took the hand, noting the cryptic smile on the other man's face. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Right,” John said warily, still not entirely sure what to make of the supposed bureaucrat in front of him. A government employee fond of clandestine meetings, who was willing to help his brother flout the law? _Uh huh_. “Well, I’ll just wait for instructions.”

“Thank you.”

John nodded with military aplomb and turned to proceed back to the black saloon. He took only three limping steps before he stopped. He looked back at Mycroft Holmes over his shoulder. “This won’t be an issue?” John picked the cane up off the floor by way of illustration.

Mycroft looked very serious. “Oh, I shouldn’t think so.”

John inclined his head, appeased.

Some minutes later, as the car pulled back out into the dark, a familiar voice interrupted Mycroft’s thoughts.

“I thought you were going to stay out of this, My,” Greg said, appearing from a darkened corner.

“Hello, darling,” Mycroft said pleasantly. “And how did you find me?”

“I knew you were up to something this morning; coming into town for no real reason at all. And you are not the only member of this family with access to surveillance,” Greg replied, striding slowly toward his husband. “He won’t thank you for this, pet.”

“Not initially,” Mycroft agreed, trying to be patient as the man he adored (sentiment he had thought himself incapable of at one time) approached. Greg finally stopped in front of him and placed a hand on the taller man’s hip. “But John is…Dr. Watson is different, Gregory. I think this might work.”

Greg shook his head as slid his other hand up and over Mycroft’s chest. “You have a curious, designing mind, Mycroft Holmes. I only hope it doesn’t cost you what precious little relationship you have with your brother. And I hope it doesn’t cost the good doctor his sanity.”

Mycroft bent his head and covered his husband’s lips with his own. When they parted, he sighed a little. “I will keep a very watchful eye.”

Greg snorted. “Well, you’re going to have to, aren’t you? How can you think a disabled former army doctor is going to be able to protect Sherlock?”

“Ah, yes. The limp.” Mycroft dragged his fingers through the salt and pepper strands of his husband’s hair.

“Yeah, the limp,” Greg repeated. “He won’t be able to keep up with your brother, let alone keep him safe from other alphas.”

“He didn’t even consider his disability until he’d started to walk away, as though he’d forgotten all about it. Entirely psychosomatic.”

“Say again?” Greg looked puzzled. “You think it’s all in his head?”

“So does his therapist. Though she seems to think the tremor in his hand indicates PTSD.”

“And you don’t.”

“Poppycock. Dr. Watson is a man of action. Dark, scary warehouse and no sign of a tremor at all. He isn’t haunted by the war; he misses it. Can you imagine anyone more perfect for my brother?”

“But the man’s got a cane and everything. And you know I hate it when you tell me about criminal invasions of privacy as though I’m not meant to be bothered.”

“My apologies, darling.” Mycroft kissed him again, stroking his tongue inside Greg’s mouth. Greg responded eagerly, opening for him and teasing the tongue with his own. Mycroft held him fast with one hand at his nape and one wrapped firmly around his waist. Greg leaned into Mycroft’s body with contentment.

“So you think,” Greg whispered, following up with a kiss. “That your brother.” Another kiss. “Can cure Dr. Watson, and that Dr. Watson can get your brother to bond?”

Mycroft pulled back far enough to fix his husband with a very self-assured look. “I predict Dr. Watson will be walking comfortably without a limp within the week. Sherlock does love a puzzle.”

Mycroft used the arm at Greg’s waist to turn him so they were side by side. He began walking in the direction of his own waiting car.

“And as for the rest, well, I don’t imagine it will take before Sherlock’s next heat. But I would put money on the one after that.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's first heat with John's help. Nothing ever turns out as it should.

Sherlock Holmes was a dick.

There really wasn’t any way of getting around it, John thought to himself as he toed the ground at yet another crime scene. He was waiting, now that he had done his bit by taking a brief look at the corpse to confirm for the finicky detective what he likely already knew. He watched with a trace of a smile as Sherlock swept dramatically from the body to the far side of the lane where it had been found, isolating a small pile of god-only-knew-what and beginning an argument with the forensics lead—Anderson, John thought his name was.

No, Holmes was arrogant, rash, rude and sometimes frustrating to the point where he tempted John (who prided himself on his patience) to resort to violence. In fact, Holmes was the bossiest omega John had ever met.

And John liked him. Really liked him.

He couldn’t think of a rational reason why. Between the body parts, the weird experiments and the clutter in their flat, and the thoughtless disregard for the needs of others, Sherlock Holmes should have been the last person John wanted to spend time with. Unfortunately, John couldn’t think of any place in the world he would rather be.

It was a bad idea, obviously. Finding himself attracted to the omega he was supposed to protect was inconvenient. John hadn’t intended for it to happen, but from the very first moment Sherlock glanced at him in the lab at Bart’s and said “I don’t accept gifts from my brother,” John had been intrigued.

Mycroft had warned him it would be a challenge to get Sherlock to accept him as a flatmate. He’d initially thought they could pass it all off as a coincidence with Mike’s help, but of course Sherlock had known instantly who he was and why he was there. He’d read John’s life in his posture, haircut, tan and (psychosomatic) limp along with a few brief words and a mobile phone.  And he had, quite correctly, surmised that his brother had selected John to be his bodyguard/assistant.

John had been astonished. The way the man’s mind worked was utterly fascinating. John had never met anyone like him. Well, he wouldn’t have—how could there be anyone else like Sherlock Holmes?

“A thinly veiled attempt to get me to bond,” the man had muttered as he pulled on his overcoat.

“He says not,” John had replied.

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock sighed, meeting John’s eyes.  He started to speak, but hesitated for a moment as he regarded John’s face. Finally he said, “But then practically everyone is.”

“Look, mate, I am not looking to bond—particularly not with someone who insults me on first meeting,” John had said, sounding waspish, he knew. “I need a flatshare. And I can help you deal with the challenges you’re facing until this thing blows over. That’s all.”

Sherlock had watched him through narrowed eyes, one long finger lifted thoughtfully to the side of his mouth as the other held the door wide. John had become discomfited under the intense scrutiny. At length the man had said simply, “221B Baker Street,” and left the room in whirl of dark wool.

The next day he had gone to see the flat. Sherlock had not said whether or not he could stay, but had instead invited him to a crime scene.   

John was to learn the invitation had been prompted by Detective Inspector Lestrade, who turned out to be Sherlock’s brother-in-law. Greg had, he told John much later, gently suggested—following an epic shouting match between the Holmes brothers over Mycroft’s “high-handed interference“ and Sherlock’s “foolish wilfulness”—that a medical man might be just the thing, given the nature of Sherlock’s dilemma.

Thing was, in addition to the concerns presented by his gender and the new laws, Sherlock was facing a predicament at work as well. While the Metropolitan Police brass had decided to turn a blind eye to the occasional presence of a civilian at crime scenes, most of the members of DI Lestrade’s forensics team had refused to work with Sherlock again. Sherlock didn’t need their help as such, John had discovered; rather, the man seemed simply to function better when he was able to bounce his ideas off someone else. And, as Sherlock himself had pointed out, he couldn’t very well speak to his pet skull in public.

So John had been invited along. And he must have passed the test, because after the crime scene there had been dinner. Well, sort of. And after dinner there had been a foot race through London.

They’d arrived back at Sherlock’s flat, out of breath and giggling like idiots. John hadn’t even realized he’d forgotten his cane; had forgotten to limp. Sherlock had so completely distracted and engaged him that he had forgotten all about it. As they’d leaned against the wall and the man had tilted his head to smile at John, there was a knock at the door.

By the time John had stepped back in from speaking with Angelo, Sherlock had retreated upstairs. John’s phone had vibrated with a new message.

_Told you so. Move in at your convenience – SH_

Now, nearly a month later, John was firmly ensconced in 221B Baker Street and the two of them had adopted a comfortable, companionable rhythm.

John cooked or ordered in and made sure Sherlock ate. He prevented the man from inflicting too much damage on the flat (Sherlock had developed an unhealthy fondness for John’s firearm) and tried to put the bills in order. For his part, Sherlock wandered about in a dressing gown or a sheet—sometime silent and sometimes muttering to himself (or to John, whether or not he was in the room)—when not dragging John out to various unsavoury locations at all times of night or doing unspeakable things to human remains in the microwave. The detective haunted the flat at night, playing his violin to aide his cognitive process. By happy accident, John found the sound quite soothing.

As for the rest, well, it was never discussed. Sherlock seemed determined to ignore the issue. He certainly took no orders from John and did not acknowledge his new flatmate’s gender. However John had noticed the younger man unconsciously stepping closer to him in the presence of other alphas. John knew he was more concerned than he was letting on.

In spite of this, Sherlock was still reckless and risked his safety at every turn, giving John—he was sure—even more grey hair than he’d arrived with. And the man inspired in John protective instincts stronger than he had ever felt before, for any omega he had ever known.

The night with the cabbie had nearly done John’s head in.

When Sherlock left on his own with a serial killer (an ALPHA serial killer, no less) John had been overwhelmed by the need to find him. His rage had built quickly as he’d followed the phone’s signal. As he’d shouted Sherlock’s name down every corridor in the empty building, his mind had raced with what he would do if any harm had come to the younger man.

Shooting the criminal cab driver was the least he could achieve from where he was. Had he been in the room, he doubted Hope’s death would have been so clean or so quick.

Sherlock had smiled at him again that night. A genuine smile; still somewhat tentative, but almost trusting.

Within a week of that night and their first case together, John had decided to sever his employment with Mycroft Holmes. He’d arranged a meeting and explained he no longer felt comfortable accepting money for helping someone he considered a friend. Mycroft had taken the news remarkably well, and promised to continue providing any assistance John might need to protect his brother. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been irritated with him over the loss of income. However John was fairly certain (though it was never stated) the man was secretly pleased with this new loyalty.

But now they were about to face the first real hurdle in their arrangement: they were rapidly approaching Sherlock’s heat. John had noted Sherlock’s uncharacteristic sleepiness and shorter temper. He hadn’t really wanted Sherlock to answer Lestrade’s call today, but nothing he had said had convinced the man it was too risky.

And so he waited. With his gun tucked into the back of the waistband of his trousers.

Lestrade sidled up to him with a coffee in hand. “Quite a show, isn’t it?”

John nodded, looking out again at where Sherlock was grabbing Anderson by the shoulder to direct him—very condescendingly—to something the man had obviously missed.  “How much longer do you think he’ll be?” he asked. “It’s just…”

“What is that smell?”

John’s head snapped up to where Sergeant Donovan was sniffing the air as she passed Sherlock. The detective’s head came up; he was pale and his mouth was hanging open. John punched the pre-arranged code into his phone and hit send, already on the move.

Sherlock began to back away as Donovan edged closer to him. “It’s almost like…” she started.

“Sherlock?” John said, feigning good-natured laughter. “I told you you’d have to shower after playing with that stuff.”

Sherlock watched John approach, his expression quickly mutating from the beginnings of panic to eye-rolling incredulity. John was consistently surprised by the man’s acting ability.

“Sorry, everyone,” John said apologetically to the pack of alphas and two betas before him, moving to stand beside the detective. He felt the subtle shifting as Sherlock moved a little nearer to him. “Little experiment with pheromones this morning. We have another case up north—omega killed during her heat. Come on, genius. Let’s get you home and cleaned up before you get everyone all hot and bothered for nothing.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied haughtily. “If they are so unevolved they simply can’t ignore it…”

“Ignore it?” Donovan sniped. “Who the hell could ignore the scent of an omega in heat?”

“Let’s go,” John continued, leading Sherlock back toward Curzon Street.

“Freak,” Anderson muttered as they passed.

John ground his teeth and tightened his grip around the taller man’s elbow to keep from swinging a punch. God, he really was going to have to get a grip on this. Sherlock was his responsibility, but the man was not his omega.

He marched them out to the main street and turned left toward Park Lane, where he knew the car Mycroft was sending would meet them.

“I told you it was too close,” he grumbled under his breath as they walked.

“You’re hurting my arm,” Sherlock sulked.

“Sorry, sorry,” John’s anger melted immediately and he loosened his fingers. “Better?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Are you feeling okay?” John noted the flush to the taller man’s cheeks and a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. “How’s your tum?”

Sherlock’s eyes were a little glassy; still, he glared at John. “My tum? Really? Am I a five-year-old with ‘flu now, John?”

He stumbled a little; John righted him. He moved his hand from Sherlock’s elbow and wrapped a steadying arm about the man’s waist. “Just hang on,” he soothed. “We’ll be safe soon.”

“ _We’ll_ be safe,” Sherlock sneered. “You’re always safe. I’ll never be safe again. Not until they repeal this bloody stupid law.”

Right on cue, the black saloon appeared as they reached the intersection with Park Lane. John tucked Sherlock into the waiting car and slid in behind him. The driver departed without any instructions. John knew he or she would be a beta, and therefore slightly less susceptible, but the partition had been tightly closed regardless.

Sherlock collapsed against the seat cushions and curled toward the far window away from John, long arms wrapped about his body. John watched him for a moment. Sherlock’s breathing evened out and he appeared to be falling asleep.

John pulled out his phone again and sent one more message.

_On our way. Safe. – JW_

_______________________

Sherlock could hear moaning. Who was moaning? He surfaced from sleep, preparing to shout at whoever was disturbing his much-needed rest. He was tired. So very tired.

“Sherlock?”

John. John was here.

“Moaning,” Sherlock grumbled, opening his eyes to find his new doctor staring down at him. He glanced about—the car. Oh, yes. They were on their way to Kent. He had obviously slid down in the seat in sleep, now almost prone in the spacious town car with his long legs stretched out before him.

“Yeah, you were. It’s coming on pretty fast now,” John said gently.

Sherlock clutched a hand to his belly as the aching worsened. The sickly, hot, itchy, too sensitive dreadfulness of heat was beginning to settle in. His stomach was upset and the throbbing in his genitals was only going to get worse. “Oh, god,” he moaned again.

“I know. Just…hang on. We’re only about ten minutes away.”

Sherlock looked over at his companion suddenly as the wave of pheromones hit him.

“Alpha.” Sherlock inhaled deeply as the scent John was now releasing in response to Sherlock’s own filled the confines of the car. He noted the unusual colour in John’s face. Pupils dilated. “John, you can’t be an alpha now,” he muttered irrationally.

“I’m sorry. You know that’s just autonomic. It’s okay; I’m still in control, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shivered as his cock came to attention. He could feel the slide of lubrication leaking from his bottom as ground into the leather seat. “Oh, god.” He rolled away toward the door again, cupping both hands over his engorged prick. He rubbed gently, trying desperately to take the edge off.

He could hear John moving behind him; he glanced over his shoulder to see the other man shifting uncomfortably as he slid even further away from Sherlock.

“You don’t want me,” Sherlock’s voice sounded needy, weak, even to his own ears. He despised it, but couldn’t seem to control the urge to reach out to the alpha so close to him. John smelled so very, very good. Like sandalwood and evergreen and that heady, musky alpha something that was rapidly turning Sherlock’s keen brain to jelly.

“What?” John’s voice was breathy. “I don’t—you don’t want me to want you, Sherlock. Remember? That’s not what this is about. I’m just getting you to a safe place. Then I’ll have a wank and sleep until you’re the other side of this.”

Sherlock bit his lip as his mind filled with images of John’s alpha cock, hard and leaking, sliding through the fingers of his steady, surgeon’s hand. “FUCK!” he tugged at the zip on his trousers, frantic to get to his own throbbing shaft.

“No, Sherlock, don’t. Please,” John begged. He turned back to the window, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Oh, god, I knew we should have left this morning.”

Sherlock found his way to his cock, instantly wrapping it with his fist and beginning to stroke. “Yes, yes,” he hissed, licking his dry lips. “Better.”

John groaned, shoving a clenched fist into his crotch. “Please, Sherlock. For god’s sake! You’re making it worse.”

“You want to fuck me,” Sherlock panted. “You have for some time. I know. I could see it. Now you can. You can. I’m ready. I’m wet and open. You just have to bend me over and shove your fat alpha cock inside m—”

“Jes—Sherlock STOP!” John shouted. He pressed one cheek against the cool glass. “Christ, I know you can’t help it, but you have to try! Look! There’s the house. We’re almost there, yeah?”

Sherlock glanced out the window, the sight of his childhood home somehow cutting through the fog of hormones. “Almost…oh, god, I’m sorry—sorry. I just…” He released his cock and pulled his hand from his trousers, curling in on himself in shame. “I’m exactly what they think. I’m a filthy omega slut. I should be bonded and locked away. I’m—”

“Don’t!” John barked. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that. Never. You are not a slut—no omega is. We’re all victims of this twisted biological prank. Alphas aren’t all chest-thumping, cock-swinging ‘knot-heads’, either. Alphas and omegas can be brilliant together. My parents were. They brought out the best in each other; helped each other cope with the quirks of their gender. ”

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from whimpering as a sluice of fluid slid down the backs of thighs, drenching his trousers. He felt a strong hand in the centre of his back, rubbing gently.

“Hang on. Just hang on. You’ll be safe soon.”

Minutes later, Sherlock felt cool air on his face as his door was thrown wide.

“Can you walk? No, never mind. Stupid question,” John muttered. He reached into the car and pulled Sherlock toward him, crouching down to slide the man up and over his shoulder. Sherlock flopped helplessly against John’s back as the shorter man stood, bearing up remarkably under Sherlock’s weight. He felt strong arms wrap around his legs as they crunched across the gravel drive toward the front door.

Sherlock could hear John punching the code into the keypad and heard the crack as he kicked the door wide. It slammed behind them and there was a delay as John stopped to punch in the code to re-arm the system.

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, unable to bear the humiliation of his body’s need as it pressed and soaked into the man carrying him. He knew his scent so near to John must be killing him—the alpha scent radiating off of John was amplifying the deep, gnawing hunger in his own gut. He wanted nothing more than for John to throw him to the marble floor, tear his trousers off and plow his arse until they both came. He wanted it so badly it hurt.

Instead, John climbed two flights of stairs and strode purposefully toward the panic room that had been prepared. Mycroft had assured Sherlock it would be fitted with everything he would need to survive his heat alone.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt himself sliding toward the floor. His feet touched and he willed his rubbery legs to hold him as John propped him against the wall. He looked at his new friend as the man threw the steel door open beside him. John was sweating profusely now—no doubt from the combined exertions of carrying Sherlock and his own body preparing to mount an omega. His eyes were nearly black with lust. He gestured to the room that would be Sherlock’s home for the next 5 days.

“In. Get in,” he panted. Sherlock nodded dumbly and turned. “Lock the door and don’t open it for anything. Not until you’re done.”

Sherlock closed the door, feeling both relief and sadness as the solid steel clanked into place behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is safely tucked away for his heat...or so John thinks.

John descended the stairs and walked stiffly toward the back of the house. He had been here once before—Mycroft had insisted upon a tour shortly after he had accepted the job. He found the modern kitchen quickly and collected two bottles of water.

He followed the hall back through the doorway into the main reception rooms and then back past the stairs to the private study Mycroft had set aside for his use. He had been offered one of the guest rooms upstairs, but had pointed out they were all too close to Sherlock’s space for his comfort.

He stepped into the grey room and closed the door behind him. He set his gun down on the table near the sofa and then opened one of the bottles of water and guzzled nearly half of it. He was still a little shaky, breathing heavily.

It had been far too close.

John began tearing at his clothes—Sherlock’s scent was everywhere around him. His shirt was saturated with the lubrication Sherlock’s body was producing. He tugged his arms free and dropped it to the floor, followed quickly by his trousers, pants and socks.

His cock was so hard it felt like he could hammer nails with it.

He strode across the room to the small wardrobe Mycroft had installed for him. John had sent over some changes of clothes along with a few other things he’d considered he might need: plastic bags (he retrieved one), ammunition, alpha body wash and…well, he had genuinely hoped he wouldn’t need it, but he’d thrown it in anyway. And thank god he had.

He pulled the plastic tube from the shelf and slammed the doors. He set the toy on the side table next to the small sofa and proceeded to bag and tightly tie his soiled clothing. Then he moved back to the sofa and threw the cushions on the floor revealing the mechanism for the pullout bed.

In one swift movement, John had the bed in place and wasted no time throwing himself down on it. He couldn’t wait anymore—it was starting to ache.

He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked, smoothing pre-come down over the shaft as lubrication.

_John._

Was that…? No. Couldn’t be. He grasped at the toy beside him and replaced his hand with it, sinking the soft, hollowed-out space—designed to exactly duplicate a male omega’s anal and vaginal passages—over his throbbing prick.

_John._

He pumped the toy hard over his needy body, increasing pressure and pace as he hurtled toward orgasm. He could feel the beginnings of a knot trying to form; he’d had enough of Sherlock’s scent to begin the process. It would be uncomfortable for a while, but it would go down once he came. If only…

“Sherlock.”

He could still smell the omega on his body. It was like summer and rain, mixed with the earthy something that was uniquely Sherlock. He groaned, inhaling deeply as he fucked the toy squeezing snugly around his cock. He could visualize the beautiful pale skin—god knew he’d seen enough of it as the man wandered half-naked through their flat. In his mind’s eye, he watched the long, lean body coming toward him, the sheet drifting forgotten to the floor. The elegant hands reached out to him.

_John._

Jesus, he could hear his voice. “Oh, god, Sherlock. Yes, I want you so badly. You feel so good.” He fucked the toy mercilessly.

_John._

“Mine. You’re mine now. No one else can have you.”

_John._

“Fuck, yes, oh, fuck, Sherlock—oh, god…” John groaned out the last as he climaxed, his release pumping into the plastic tube. He continued to stroke lightly as he shuddered through the hardest orgasm he’d had in years.

He lay still for several minutes, wrecked, unwilling and somewhat unable to move. It had helped—taken the edge off—but he still needed to get Sherlock’s scent off his body.

Finally, John pulled the toy free and stood on shaking legs. He grabbed a towel from the stack of linens that had been left on the nightstand and his body wash from the wardrobe and made his way into the adjoining washroom to shower.

________________

After John deposited him in the room, Sherlock stripped immediately. The silk shirts that were always so smooth and soft against his skin felt like burlap. The well-fitting wool trousers felt uncomfortably tight and restrictive.

Once naked, he briefly explored his surroundings. As promised, Mycroft had left a sufficient supply of food and water as well as a collection of alpha dildos (regular and knotting), a cock ring, two vibrators, and—Sherlock flushed as he explored the seatless “chair” in the corner—a fucking machine.

He paced for a few moments, feeling a release from the lethargy of the previous three days as his body ramped up for a five-day breeding.

It was no use—he could still smell John, and not just on his clothes. John was on his hands, on his body. Oh, god, it smelled so good. He dropped to his knees and grabbed at the purple shirt he’d just removed. He buried his face in it, finding the spot where his abdomen had rubbed tightly against the spot on John’s neck where the scent would be strongest.

His body quivered as another wave of lubrication prepared his arse for the alpha whose scent he was beginning to imprint. He moaned, scrambling to his feet and trying to make his way to the bed.

As he passed the electronics panel near the door, though, he brushed against one of the controls, snapping the entire array to life. Eight separate cameras within the house and twelve on the grounds rotated their feeds onto the screens before him.

He was momentarily distracted from his body’s needs, suddenly desperate to know where John was and what he was doing. Within seconds, he’d located the man in the grey study. He zoomed in the camera.

“John.”

He fell backwards toward the bed as he watched John stripping. His mouth filled with saliva as the thick, hard alpha cock was revealed. “Oh, god.”

Sherlock’s arse started contracting, seeking some kind of relief. He slipped onto his side—eyes locked onto the screen—as he twisted to stuff two fingers into the hot, wet passage. He fucked his fingers as he watched John preparing to masturbate with an omegalight. It was blue. A male omega. John wanted to fuck a male omega. He was right: John wanted to fuck _him_.

“John.”

He groaned in frustration as his fingers failed to fill him adequately. He groped mindlessly in the box beside the bed to obtain a healthy-sized alpha dildo and tugged feverishly on his own cock as he shoved it home with no ado.

John was pumping his toy furiously now and…calling his name. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. If he could hear John, could the man hear him?

“John,” he breathed, matching the man stroke for stroke both on his cock and inside his dripping hole.

Sherlock watched as John’s back arched and he called Sherlock’s name: _Oh, god, Sherlock. Yes, I want you so badly. You feel so good._

“John.”

_Mine. You’re mine now. No one else can have you._

Sherlock pounded his body as he watched John’s cock wasted on a useless piece of plastic. It should be inside him; John should be mating with him. Oh, how he wanted it. Wanted it like he had never wanted anything before.

He pumped his cock as he felt the first shivering fingers of orgasm. “John!”

_Fuck, yes, oh, fuck, Sherlock—oh, god…_

They came together, a disparate duet of moaning, sweat and bodily fluids.

Sherlock lay panting and naked on his side in the centre of the narrow bed in the panic room, one hand still fisted around his now-softening cock and the other still pumping the dildo in and out of his greedy hole.

He’d come hard—harder than he ever had before in his limited experience—but it wasn’t enough. His body needed more. And he knew exactly where to get it.

________________________

John tossed restlessly on the lumpy sofa bed. He was clean and smelled of nothing but alpha but he was uncomfortable. There was very little chance of getting any sleep tonight.

He hadn’t realized how much he had come to rely on Sherlock: on the sound of the man’s violin or the incessant chatter about all manner of interesting and inane things or the rare sound of his laughter. His smile. His scent.

John missed him. So much it hurt.

He had never considered bonding before. He’d always been happy with casual liaisons. He’d had a few omegas in heat but as profound as the experiences had been, he’d never before been tempted to bite, mark and claim.

He’d never even come close to it, until today.

The urge to throw Sherlock down on the floor and plunge his cock into the sweet, soft, wet heat of his omega hole again and again and again was nearly overwhelming.

Looking at Sherlock’s back as they rode in the car, all he could do was stare at the younger man’s nape, imagining what it might be like if only he could brush the dark curls out of the way and sink his teeth into that flesh and bind them together permanently.

He sighed heavily and flopped onto his back, one hand splayed out over his chest. He was half-hard again.

It was going to be a very long five days.

He was pulled from his reverie by shuffling noises in the hall. _Shit! How had they got in? Past the alarm system?_

He was on his feet instantly, weapon in hand and creeping toward the door. _Please god, let it be a wayward employee and not another alpha…_

He listened at the door for a moment. The movement had stilled, but he could hear...breathing. They were right outside the door!

John tensed, throwing the door wide and tackling the intruder on the other side. He grappled flailing limbs for a moment until the figure beneath him went limp. His weapon was up as he straddled the body.

“What the FUCK?? Sherlock!”

John focused long enough to register the naked cock now rubbing against his own as Sherlock’s scent hit him like a slamming door. “Oh my god!” He pushed back, scrambling across the floor away from the temptation, his gun forgotten. “Stay away from me! Sherlock, listen: you have to go upstairs. You have to put some distance between us. Stay away from me, do you understand?”

The man was purring—jesus, he was purring—as he pulled himself onto all fours and crawled toward John. John pushed back into the wall, fists pressed against his eyes. “No, no, no, no. Sherlock don’t do this. You DON’T WANT THIS!!””

“Yes I do,” the rich voice growled, right against his ear. “This is what I want, John. You. Inside me. Tonight. Always.” He licked a stripe up John’s neck. “ _Please_.”

The thin body shuddered against him and John broke. He scooped the man into his arms as he pulled the full lips he’d been fantasizing about to his own. He plunged his tongue within, plundering Sherlock’s mouth as he rolled them both to pin the man’s body beneath him. He stroked the fevered flesh—smoothing, teasing, tweaking at dusky nipples. Sherlock’s fingers dug into his back as he sucked on John’s tongue.

John ground his cock down into Sherlock’s pelvis, groaning as his own sensitive flesh slid alongside the heated length of Sherlock’s omega cock. Sherlock arched against him, one hand reaching up to grasp John’s to drag it around and under to his thoroughly lubricated entrance.

John slid two fingers inside eagerly, relishing the broken noises Sherlock was making beneath him.

“You smell beautiful,” John murmured, tasting the man’s mouth again. “You belong to me now.”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, clenching around John’s fingers inside him. “Yours. Always.”

John buried his face into Sherlock’s neck, inhaling deeply and growling a little as the scent began to imprint. He suckled at the flesh of Sherlock’s throat and pressed his cock hard into the man’s hip. Nimble fingers danced over the surface of warm flesh, tracing the sharp edges and delicate curves of the omega’s body. John was on the edge, nearing the point of no return…

“Knot me, John,” Sherlock begged. “Fill me, make me yours.”

John pulled back from the pheromone fog, gasping a little. He stared down at Sherlock, trying to understand why that sounded so wrong. It should be right; it was what he wanted. Why…

 _Sherlock doesn’t want this_ , his conscious mind screamed at him. Sherlock was taking elaborate precautions to avoid this very thing. Sherlock trusted him for protection. And now, when he was at his most vulnerable, John was about to fail him.

John snarled, a wave of adrenalin flooding his system. He surged to his feet dragging Sherlock with him. He swept the man up and headed for the stairs.

“NO! John, please!”

“You don’t want this,” he grunted.

“I do. Please! I’ve changed my mind.”

John said nothing, concentrating on getting them both up the stairs as quickly as possible. Within minutes he was pounding into the panic room and dropping Sherlock on the bed, shaking off the haze of omega pheromones in the small room. He turned to the control panel. On—of course. He _had_ heard Sherlock’s voice before.

John punched three buttons as Sherlock whimpered on the bed behind him.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave. Fuck me—please! We don’t have to bond…”

“I can’t, Sherlock,” John rasped. “I wouldn’t be able to stop.” He slid one last lever into place and backed toward the door.

Sherlock was approaching him again. John held out a hand. “I can’t do this. You have no idea how much I want to. But if I did, you’d hate yourself in four days. Worse than that, you’d hate me.” John backed through the door that was rapidly closing—on the four-day time lock he had just set—behind him.

“And that’s the one thing I couldn’t bear,” he whispered as his best friend disappeared from view.

The steel door snapped shut and John collapsed to the floor. He was throbbing, nearly beyond bearing now. He fisted his cock roughly, desperately, spilling his seed all over the floor with a choked sob.

“ _Sherlock_.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regrets abound, but Mycroft is not permitted to meddle. Greg said so.

The silence in the car was painful. John had attempted conversation three times since they’d left Coventry Court. Sherlock had been terse.

John watched the scenery passing. He’d sent a message to Mycroft as a courtesy, letting him know they’d passed the heat without incident and the house would be free shortly. Mycroft’s response—sent from Greg’s phone—was odd:

_Tell him the truth – MH_

John had puzzled over it. He was not generally considered a stupid person; still he did often feel out of his depth with the Holmes boys. It wasn’t that he minded not seeing what they both saw, he just wished they wouldn’t see quite so much about _him_. The elder Holmes’ omniscience, in particular, had begun to feel a bit intrusive.

So while he wasn’t sure what truth he was meant to tell Sherlock, he was pretty sure it was none of Mycroft’s business.

Sherlock was checking his messages, his mouth set in the same hard line it had been in since he’d emerged from the panic room.

He had made his way down to the kitchen, where John had been consuming a particularly hearty fry-up. Sherlock was immaculately groomed, composed and aloof. If John hadn’t been aware of the drama at the outset of the man’s heat, he would hardly have been able to guess at it.

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” Sherlock had announced coldly.

John had nodded, trying to avoid direct eye contact. “Are you…all right?”

Sherlock had straightened his shoulders and drawn himself to his full height. “Fine. No need for concern.” He’d spun on his heel and left John to his breakfast.

Since then, John had tried twice to enquire after Sherlock’s health and once to ask about their last case. All three attempts had been firmly quashed.

“I will be spending the rest of the day at Bart’s,” Sherlock said finally. “Feel free to get on with whatever it is you do when I’m not about.”

John flinched a little at his flatmate’s tone. “Sherlock, we really need to talk about…”

“We really don’t,” the younger man snapped, staring out the window.

“Yes, we do,” John insisted, using his most formidable alpha voice.

“Don’t.” Sherlock tensed as his body responded to John’s tone.

“I-I’m sorry, but this is important.” John relented somewhat, feeling even more guilt for attempting gender manipulation. He simply didn’t have the heart for it. He tried another tack. “I don’t think it’s going to do us any good to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Biological urges, John,” Sherlock said sharply. “Nothing more. I am…grateful…for your restraint. You have proven to be a trustworthy and reliable colleague.”

“Colleague?” The word washed over John like a bucket of ice water. “But…”

“I see no reason we cannot continue to live and work together, at least in the short term. With any luck, the law will be repealed within a reasonable amount of time—I will be able to return to a regular regime of heat suppressants and we can both return to our normal lives.”

“Right,” John said weakly. He pursed his lips as he tried to cleanse the images of Sherlock naked and writhing and so very ripe beneath him. He shifted uncomfortably as his body responded.

“Problem?”

John shook his head a bit sadly, wishing for one fleeting moment that he wasn’t an honourable man. He could so easily have taken what Sherlock had offered him four days earlier. The idea of bonding with Sherlock felt so very right, so natural, so complete. He couldn’t imagine the rest of his life without him.

The bond wouldn’t have been a lie, at least not for him. But he knew how strongly Sherlock valued his freedom. And no matter how powerful the urge to claim and to possess, John couldn’t be the one to take it from him.

_______________________________________

Mycroft was pacing in his pants as Greg returned from the shower.

“Trouble?” Greg asked casually, towelling his hair dry. He slid off the other towel he’d wrapped about his hips and dropped it on the end of their bed.

Mycroft watched his husband with pleasure, though still distracted. He could not completely ignore the problem at hand.

Greg strolled toward him, naked and still a bit damp. “Can I help?” he asked gruffly, wrapping both arms around the taller man’s waist.

“My brother is an idiot.”

“Is that meant to be news?” Greg shook his head. He rubbed his hand lovingly over the small of Mycroft’s back. “I love the kid, and I know he’s brilliant, but he can be a right pillock sometimes.”

Mycroft dropped his head to nuzzle into Greg’s bare shoulder. He kissed the few remaining drops of clean water from the skin that was still a little bronzed from their last holiday to Greece. He frowned against the man’s shoulder. “Why can’t he simply accept the evidence of his own senses?”

“What evidence is that, pet?”

“Dr. Watson makes him…happy,” Mycroft marvelled. “Happy, Gregory. My brother. Sherlock is calmer, healthier and infinitely more agreeable than I have seen him since he was a boy. John makes him laugh.”

“I’ve noticed. He’s been a lot easier to manage lately. Not that he isn’t…I mean, he’s still Sherlock. But John sort of smoothes out the rough edges. Helps him talk to people. Points out when he’s being a twat.”

“Yes. It’s remarkable. I couldn’t have hoped for a better match,” Mycroft sighed. “He’s doing this deliberately. Because I found John.”

“You don’t know that. And it isn’t as though he doesn’t come by that stubbornness honestly.” Greg pulled his husband a little tighter. “Look, Sherlock’s fond of him. They’re friends. That’s a good beginning, isn’t it? We started out as friends.”

Mycroft hummed happily at the memory of their first meeting—a chance encounter in a corridor of the Old Bailey.

Mycroft shouldn’t even have been there. On any other occasion he would have sent one of his staff, but for some reason he had felt compelled to attend the trial himself. He’d listened to the testimony with little interest, until one DI Lestrade was called to give evidence.

He’d straightened in his seat, riveted by the deep voice, the dark hair, the cheeky grin (which had made only one surreptitious appearance as the man answered questions). Mycroft had been stunned by the strength of his response—he’d long since resigned himself to the idea that he was not cut out for bonding or for relationships of any kind. He had assumed that he did not possess the ability or the understanding to care about another human being that way.

He’d left the courtroom a little dazed, still taken aback by his attraction to the handsome policeman. It didn’t matter anyway, he’d thought. The man would never fancy him, even if they did meet, he’d told himself as he walked away. And the man was obviously a beta—legally they could mate with alphas, but they tended to stick to their own.

He hadn’t been paying attention at all as he’d felt a body colliding with his own. He’d looked down, startled, to find DI Gregory Lestrade smiling up at him.

“Sorry, mate,” the copper had said. “I was a little distracted.”

“I apologize,” Mycroft remembered muttering. “I’m quite certain the fault is mine. My mind was elsewhere.”

Greg had looked him up and down and then chuckled. “Don’t tell me—having a hard time ruling the world?”

Their friendship had developed over a mutual love of builder’s tea (something Mycroft would deny if asked) and modern art (which Greg would vehemently disavow if pressed). Their courtship, which had begun sometime later, had been slow—agonizing really—as Mycroft was frequently forced to break dates for national crises and Greg left in the middle of several romantic dinners to attend crime scenes.

Somehow, though, they had managed to spend enough time together for Greg to convince Mycroft that:

> a) Mycroft did have the capacity to love, he just hadn’t been taught how. The Holmes household had not been a particularly warm, nurturing environment. Greg, on the other hand, came from a large, loud, loving family and had spent his life looking for someone to lavish affection on.
> 
> b) Alphas and betas could be quite wonderful together. Mycroft would later come to understand that he could never have been happy with an omega—the hormonal requirements and the usual power imbalances simply wouldn’t have suited a man of his temperament.
> 
> c) Hot, hard, feverish, semi-clothed sex in the back of a police vehicle could be truly delightful.

Mycroft’s life had changed in ways he had never expected and all for the good. And now, having seen his baby brother through so many dark days, he desperately wanted Sherlock to connect with someone, too. He was convinced John H. Watson was the one.

“Are you sure you haven’t been spying on them?” Greg asked, his tone playfully menacing. “You did, promise, My.”

Mycroft stiffened a little and ran a hand down his husband’s muscular back to graze over his pert bottom. “I may have glanced at the footage. Once or twice.”

“Mycroft Holmes!” Greg pulled back, his brow furrowed. “What am I going to do with you? If I’m not chasing after your lunatic brother then I’m trying to keep you from sticking your fingers into everybody’s pies! What a bloody family I’ve married into.”

Mycroft’s mouth quirked a little. “There is only one ‘pie’ I am concerned with sticking my fingers into at the moment.” He dragged the self-same digits over his husband’s cleft, dropping his head to place soft kisses over the bridge of the shorter man’s nose. Greg huffed a little, but leaned into the caress. He inhaled sharply as Mycroft’s searching fingers parted his cheeks gently and stroked over him.

“Mmm, My…”

“Yes, my darling?” Mycroft nibbled a path over his husband’s cheekbone and down to burrow into the sensitive flesh just below his ear.

“I would really like you to fuck me now,” Greg whispered, sliding his hands around to play with his husband’s nipples.

Mycroft hummed his approval, dipping one long finger into his husband’s tight passage. “How delightful.”

“But don’t think for one minute this conversation is over,” Greg’s voice was a little breathy, but nevertheless held all the authority of a man used to command. “You need to leave them alone.”

“But…” Mycroft relinquished the love bite he was marking into Greg’s skin to complain.

“NO,” Greg said firmly. He pulled back to meet his husband’s eyes. “Let them figure it out. No more prying.”

Mycroft looked put upon, but only for a moment. Greg claimed his mouth and all else was forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why on earth would you want to be bonded to someone like that?

“Tea,” Sherlock barked.

John threw his paper down and stood. He snatched the mug, held aloft by the distracted man in the chair across from him, and stomped into the kitchen for the third time that morning. He switched the kettle on and braced himself against the cabinets as he waited.

In the beginning, he’d berated himself for allowing this habit to develop. There was no reason for him to be fetching and carrying for Sherlock. John was the alpha, for god’s sake. If anything Sherlock should be fetching _his_ tea.

And yet, though he would never understand why, he’d let it continue. Maybe it was his awe of the younger man’s genius, or maybe it was the fact that he had begun to find himself attracted to Sherlock. He’d just kept getting the damn tea.

Now, of course, he did it out of guilt.

Oh, he’d stopped in time. He’d refused to take what was offered and left Sherlock unbonded and unbred. But somehow the _almost_ was worse.

The strain between them was rapidly becoming unbearable.

Sherlock was distant with him. The barriers he’d had in place when John moved in were back up. The man rarely smiled at him and when he did it was fleeting, almost as though he’d forgotten it was John. Or forgotten they were no longer friends. Either way, it hurt.

And Sherlock had become very tight-lipped about something he was working on. John knew it had something to do with the cryptic comments appearing on his website, but Sherlock refused to discuss it with him. 

He knew the younger man was on hormones to mask his scent, but somehow John could still smell him. Maybe it wasn’t quite his full, rich, omega musk, but it was still Sherlock. John could smell him everywhere and it was driving him mad.

And the sheets—god, why couldn’t the man wear clothes at home like a normal person! This morning he was, in fact, wearing trousers underneath a floaty silk dressing gown, but in the two weeks since his heat Sherlock had spent four days wearing nothing at all but the damn sheet. Every fantasy John had was embodied in that image.

And it was driving him mad.

John only hoped their work could keep him distracted. If something didn’t happen soon, he was going to have to start looking for locum work just to get out of the flat.

The kettle switched off and John filled Sherlock’s mug. He turned back to the sitting room, concentrating on not spilling the hot liquid. “Here,” he said crossly. “Never say I don’t do anything for y—”

John froze as he realized Sherlock was no longer in the room.

“Sherlock?” He walked back through the kitchen and set the mug down, panic starting to rise. “Sherlock?!”

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom just as John reached the door. He was fully dressed, tugging the sleeves of his shirt down under his suit jacket. “Yes?”

“Sorry—you disappeared.”

“I was changing,” Sherlock said coldly. “Hardly reason to send out a search party.” The man continued toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“Case.”

“Oh,” John muttered. He started to follow the man down the steps. “Thank god.”

______________________

“He’s leaving me clues, but what do they mean?” Sherlock wondered aloud as John followed him through the partially furnished flat.

“Who is this that’s leaving you clues?” John asked again. “Is it the nutter from your website?”

“He’s not a nutter,” Sherlock sighed. “And yes. It is. I know I’ve been here before but why is it important. _Why_?”

“Do we have permission to be in here?” John asked suddenly. “I mean these people are obviously away from home—it’s strange the landlord would let you come up here alone.”

“Landlord?”

“Or whomever you got the key from.” John frowned. “While I was paying the cab.” He waited for some kind of response. “Sherlock, please tell me you didn’t just break into this flat.”

“That would be lying, John. I’m afraid that might offend your moral code.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John muttered, looking heavenward. “Just hurry up. We don’t want to get cau—”

John hesitated at the sound of voices. Sherlock glanced up toward the front door briefly and then quickly scanned the room. He grabbed John’s arm and dragged him toward the closet in the corner. Throwing the door wide and pressing John inside, he piled in and pulled it closed behind them.

“I’ll just be a moment, Freddy,” a woman’s voice said. “My tights have laddered—don’t want to go to the reception like this.”

“Fine,” a man answered. “I’ll just wait here.” The television was turned on. “Do you have Sky?”

John pressed against the back of the narrow closet, trying to put some distance between the front of his body and the very lush backside of the detective pressed so intimately against him. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as Sherlock shifted his weight slightly and one plump cheek nudged right against John’s rapidly hardening cock. _Shit_.

The television grew louder in the room right outside the closet door. Sherlock shifted again—John could hear him inhaling deeply. John knew his scent must be filling the confined space as his arousal grew. It wouldn’t be the same as during heat, but it was still potent.

A near silent, shuddering exhale. _Damn it_.

A hand slid back to grasp at John’s thigh. John let his eyes drift closed, his cock fully hard where it pressed into the omega’s body. He could smell that strange, altered Sherlock scent and it was still sending him into a tailspin.

He felt another hand wrap around his wrist and tug. He allowed his hand to be guided forward. His arm looped around Sherlock’s waist and his hand was deposited right over a very distinguishable bulge in the man’s trousers.

“Fu—” John’s curse was muffled as Sherlock turned his head and covered John’s mouth.

John claimed it passionately, curling forward to compensate for Sherlock’s awkward angle. It was a messy tangle of tongues, but John didn’t care. It was what he’d been dreaming about for a fortnight.

He sucked on the full bottom lip and stroked Sherlock through his trousers. The omega arched into his hand. John used his other hand to hold Sherlock’s face so he could taste the man’s mouth, lapping at the soft lips that had been haunting his dreams.

With soft sighs and muffled moans, John rubbed Sherlock toward completion as the man ground back into John’s pelvis and provided his cock with much needed friction. They rocked together, John holding the man fast against him.

“Okay, all done!”

Sherlock went rigid at the sound of the woman’s voice so near their hiding place. He gasped softly and John felt the man’s body shudder. A warm patch erupted in the trousers under John’s hand.

John nuzzled into the omega’s neck, whispering endearments as he continued to stroke him through the aftershocks of his orgasm. Sherlock slumped against him, breathing heavily.

John barely heard the telly switch off or the footsteps or the door close as the tenant and her boyfriend left her flat. He held Sherlock tight, continuing to rub his cock against the man’s bottom. He was so close.

Sherlock remained still as John panted toward his own climax. “Oh, god, Sherlock, you feel so good,” he whispered hoarsely. “Fuck…”

John came in his pants like a teenager, not caring as he clung to the body of the man he…loved.

Minutes later, as he began to return to earth, he could sense a change. Sherlock remained in his arms, but his body was tense now. Unyielding.

“Sherlock?”

“Are you finished?” the man asked. His voice was even—not a trace of warmth or residual desire.

“Yes, but…” John was adrift.

“Good,” Sherlock replied, wiggling free of John’s grasp and shoving the closet door open. He stepped out into the room and resumed his search.

John sagged into the back of the closet. “But…”

“Problem?” Sherlock asked briskly.

John pulled himself together and joined the man out in the main room, trying to ignore the damp stain on the front of his jeans. “What about that—what just happened?”

“What about it?” Sherlock shrugged. “Hormonal response. Fairly common. Clearly you and I have imprinted on each other to some degree. Doesn’t matter. It’ll fade.”

“But I don’t want it to,” John snapped.

Sherlock stopped where he was and turned slowly. He strode back to John. “I’ve told you I have no interest in mating.”

“Then why did you let me get you off and come up against your arse?”

“Because the first was quite pleasant. I had no idea sex without fear of knotting or bonding was so liberating,” Sherlock sounded genuinely pleased; John’s blood boiled at the thought of any other alpha—or beta, for that matter—taking advantage of Sherlock’s newfound interest in non-oestrus sex. “And the second?” Sherlock’s look was patronising. “It would have been very cruel to leave you in that state.”

John was furious. “You are a bastard. A cold, unfeeling, annoying dick.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed. “Why on earth would you want to be bonded to someone like that?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danger approaches...but not the kind Sherlock was expecting.

"I know I promised, Gregory,” Mycroft began over breakfast at the small table in their London house. “But I’m afraid I’m going to be obliged to break my word.”

“How’s that?” Greg asked around a mouthful of bacon sandwich.

“It has been 58 days since the last heat and my brother is rapidly approaching another one. Dr. Watson is no closer to claiming him,” Mycroft stirred his oatmeal with irritation. “Something has to be done.”

“Maybe John doesn’t want to bond with your brother,” Greg offered. “He isn’t the easiest person in the world to get on with.”

Mycroft started to speak then hesitated. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to be annoyed with me?”

“What is it?”

“Promise me first,” Mycroft insisted. “I dislike it when you are annoyed with me. It gives me a migraine.”

Greg shook his head. “Fine, I promise. What have you done?”

“I may have asked for reports on the surveillance cameras in 221B. I didn’t look at the footage myself,” he said quickly, one hand raised. “However, I thought it prudent to keep myself apprised of any…developments.”

“Uh-huh,” Greg smirked.

Mycroft’s mouth fell open, just a little. “You knew?”

Greg set his breakfast down and reached out to grab his husband’s tie. He tugged the man forward, leaning out over the table to kiss him. Hard. Mycroft groaned a little, opening his mouth over Greg’s and tasting the lovely saltiness of the bacon on his lips. Greg pulled back gently with a wicked smile. He sat back down, picked up his sandwich and took another bite.

“I know you, My,” he said, his mouth full. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to leave off completely. I admire the fact that you’ve not interfered directly since I asked.”

Mycroft licked his lips, flushing as he realized he was as interested in the residual pig as he was the taste of his husband’s mouth. Greg smirked at him, holding the soft, white, bacon-filled roll out to him.

“Bite,” he insisted.

“No, I shouldn’t,” Mycroft said, waving a hand in delicate protest.

“My, we’ve discussed this dieting thing,” Greg said softly. “Bite.”

Mycroft leaned in and bit into the sandwich in Greg’s hand. His eyes closed as he savoured the rich, meaty goodness of the bacon against the chewy bread.

“Good, yeah?” Greg said with a broad smile.

Mycroft, still pink-cheeked, nodded as he chewed.

“Now then,” the handsome police detective continued. “This thing with your brother. What’s been going on between them at home?”

Mycroft swallowed, rolling his eyes. “What hasn’t been going on? They’ve engaged in mutual hand jobs in their sitting room, sucked each other off in the kitchen and the bath and Sherlock’s room, and as near as I can tell, they had sex somewhere without removing their trousers.”

“So Sherlock does want him.”

“Obviously. But the foolish boy keeps chuntering on about ‘hormones’ and ‘conditioned responses’. He is drawn to Dr. Watson, he responds to him sexually, but then spends all his time pushing the man away.”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “That has to be confusing for John.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Maybe I could have a word with Sherlock,” Greg offered. “Now that all the excitement from the mad bomber has died down, maybe I can get him to open up.”

“Would you?” Mycroft’s shoulders slumped a little with relief. “I know he listens to you. Well, as much as he listens to anyone.”

Greg licked his fingers after popping the last bite of his breakfast into his mouth. “I’ll call in and talk to him on the way to the Yard. John’s taken a locum job at the local surgery—works every second morning. Though I suppose you knew that.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, my darling. This means the world to me.”

Greg stood and kissed Mycroft’s brow. “Can’t have my man worrying, now can I?”

____________________________

John pulled his jacket on, feeling weary. He’d hardly slept the night before. Would have been nearly impossible, really.

They’d had another row.

It had all started innocently enough. They’d come home from the art gallery, Sherlock still riding the high from solving the mysterious bomber’s last puzzle.

“Brilliant,” he’d enthused. “He’s brilliant!” He’d thrown his coat over the sofa and begun pacing through the flat.

John had followed sombrely, stunned and still impressed by Sherlock’s amazing deduction but too concerned about how close they’d come to losing the little boy on the other end of the line.

“Not as brilliant as me,” Sherlock had continued. “Nevertheless, a worthy adversary.”

“Sherlock,” John had cautioned. “A little perspective?”

“What about?”

“A woman was blown up. A little boy came very close to losing his life because you deleted primary school science.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock had hesitated by the kitchen. “The old woman was regrettable, however there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t prevent her from starting to describe our mystery man’s voice.”

“She was a human being, Sherlock. And she died because this lunatic wants to play a game. With _you_!”

Sherlock had immediately gone sulky in response to John’s tone. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know you didn’t,” John had said, still frustrated. “But you need to remember how dangerous this Moriarty is.”

Sherlock’s head had drooped, and John had felt the overwhelming urge to protect and comfort. He’d crossed the room and wrapped his arms around the taller man.

All the mixed messages, the frustrating, unfulfilling encounters—none of it mattered when Sherlock needed him. John had begun to suspect it never would.

He loved the man. He couldn’t help it.

Sherlock had buried his face in John’s neck, unwittingly baring his own as he did. John had nuzzled into the warm crook, just beginning to make out the faint traces of Sherlock’s heat pheromones. He’d moved his lips over the soft flesh, gently teasing circles with his tongue and finally…

“NO!!!”

Sherlock had shoved him back as hard as he could. He’d been shaking, eyes wide, one hand clasped to his neck where John’s teeth had begun to leave a mark. Of course a bond wouldn’t have taken outside a heat, but it would have deepened their imprint and caused Sherlock to become much more submissive.

“You can’t—you CAN’T!"

“Sherlock! What am I meant to think??!” John had bellowed. “You come on to me, and bring me off—you act like you want me, and then you shut down. Why? You're not in heat—why won’t you just allow yourself to want this?”

“I-I do want…it’s not—” Sherlock had hesitated. “If I do give in, what happens to my life then, hmm? Nappies and moving to a house in the country? Bending over the furniture for you for five days every two months?”

John had reached out, trying to reassure him.

“What kind of life would that be for me, John?” The man’s voice had become very broken. “Could you do that to me?”

“No,” John had admitted sadly. “I could never do that to you. I love you too much, but…”

“You don’t love me.” Sherlock had laughed bitterly then. “You couldn’t.”

“I do,” John had replied. “And I would do whatever was needed to make you happy as my omega. Anything you asked me, I would do. Birth control, heat suppressants—I would find a way to get them for you. And I keep my promises. You know that.” He’d started toward the stairs when Sherlock called out to him.

“Mycroft told me alphas can smell an unwilling omega,” the man had said bitterly. “That’s why you didn’t breed me during that first heat.”

John had turned then. “We can smell the difference, but I didn’t smell it on you,” John had replied. “You weren’t unwilling, you just weren’t ready.”

He’d left the room, too tired to fight anymore but too sad to sleep.

He’d been awake when his alarm went off reminding him he had a shift at the surgery. He’d showered and dressed and come down the stairs to find Sherlock bundled in his coat, scrunched up into the seat of his chair watching crap telly.

He’d waited for some sign, some acknowledgement, but the man hadn’t moved.

Now he stood at the door, jacket done up. Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe it was time to admit it was over.

He threw the door open and stepped out into the bright morning sun.

___________________________

Greg bounded up the stairs at 221B, bursting into the sitting room to find his brother-in-law huddled into his chair and virtually catatonic in front of the telly.

“Sherlock?”

“If this is about John, you can forget it,” the man grumbled. “He’s gone.”

“What, gone?” Greg’s brow furrowed. “As in, to the surgery, right?”

“No, as in gone for good,” Sherlock snapped. “He’s finally given up on his hopeless quest to make me his bondmate. We had a row, and he’s gone.”

Greg shook his head. “I really hope you’re wrong about that,” he said gruffly. “If you’re not, then you really are an idiot.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Maybe I should talk to John.”

“Please yourself. You should still be able to catch him—he walks to the tube and he’s only just left.”

“I didn’t see him. What time did he leave?”

Sherlock’s head came up. “What do you mean you didn’t see him? He should only be halfway down the block—” Sherlock was interrupted by the ringing of the pink phone on the arm beside him.

He opened the new message.

One pip.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is in danger and Sherlock learns the truth about the new omega laws...from one Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock stepped out onto the pool deck, attentive to his surroundings.

“I’m here,” he called. “Let’s play. That’s what you wanted isn’t it?”

There was a shuffling noise.

“So glad you could make it,” a voice—John’s voice—said.

Sherlock froze as the man emerged from one of the changing rooms. He was wearing a heavy winter parka.

“I’ve enjoyed this; this little game of ours,” John said stiffly. “But daddy’s bored now.”

Sherlock felt an icy something clenching inside his belly. John? It couldn’t be. His John? He thought Moriarty had taken him, but…

“What would you like me to make him say next?”

The relief that flooded Sherlock’s system was very nearly overwhelming. Had he not been so alert to the creaking door on the far side of the room, he might have gone a bit weak at the knees. Instead, he maintained his composure, even as he was seized by the desire to run to John, throw his arms around him and never let go.

Sherlock kept his eyes focussed on the far entrance to the pool as the man finally came into view. He was not large: slight of frame, shorter than Sherlock. Dark hair and eyes. Elegantly dressed. Manicure. 32. Irish, from Dublin. Vegetarian. Two cats. Omega. Omega?

“James Moriarty. Call me Jim.” The man strode toward Sherlock, hands in his pockets. “Well, well. So here we are. All of us. Isn’t this cosy?”

“Interesting venue,” Sherlock remarked.

“It is, isn’t it? I’ve always loved this place. Scene of my very first little puzzle. You remember that one, don’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, thinking back to the case that had obsessed him when he was a teenager. Well, he’d thought it was a case. The police had called it an accident. “You killed Carl Powers?”

“Just so,” Jim crowed. “Cock-swinger tried to breed me. Me? Can you believe that? Fifteen years old and he was trying to stuff me full of his useless spawn. Well, you’ll understand why I needed to make it very clear to him.”

“Make what clear?”

Moriarty had reached them now. He stood very close behind John and leaned in to whisper in the alpha’s ear as he pulled the edges of the coat apart to reveal the explosives strapped to the man’s body.

“I am no one’s bitch,” he spat.

“Let him go,” Sherlock said. He’d raised the weapon without thinking, having tucked it into his waistband after liberating it from John’s usual hiding place. His voice was even, betraying none of the fear that gnawed at him. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Of course he does,” Jim cackled. “He has everything to do with this—him and his kind. It’s all about power, Sherlock. You must see that.”

“This is about gender equality?”

“So much more than that. Come on, my lovely one. Show me how clever you are,” Jim took two steps forward, now standing between Sherlock and John, allowing John’s gun in Sherlock’s hand to rest against his temple. He got in close, his face only inches from Sherlock’s. “You can see it; I know you can. I made it all so clear for you. Tell me.”

Sherlock’s mind raced with the cases from the previous weeks. The bombing hostages had not all been alphas: two betas, one unpresented child and just the one alpha. _So what…oh, of course_.

“Your conspirators. They’re all omegas.”

“Good. Go on.”

Sherlock whirled through the facts and the seemingly unconnected details. “You. You did it.”

“Oh, he is good,” Jim turned to John then. “Isn’t he?” He paused. “Look who I’m asking. He’s nothing but a fucktoy to you, isn’t he? You don’t care about that lovely big brain.”

“Yes, I do,” John snarled.

Jim turned back to Sherlock. “But not like I do. Oh, I’ve spent a lifetime looking for you. Someone like me; someone who would understand.” He reached up to stroke a finger over Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock drew back, steadying his weapon hand and careful not to display his disgust. “The car hire company. He did imports and exports. The firm he used—that’s how you’ll move them.”

“One of the ways, yes. My Chinese contacts are proving quite useful as well. Go on.”

“Move what?” John asked, but Sherlock did not turn his attention from Jim.

“The supplier for the botulinum toxin. That’s your manufacturer,” Sherlock continued. “Also did the cabby’s poisoned pills.”

“Very, very good. And?”

“The gallery owner. She’s…”

“Yes?”

“Her brother is...”

“An alpha, Home Secretary and author of this delightful legislation. It really is beautiful, when you think about it,” Jim smiled beatifically. “I have created an insatiable demand and now I will provide the supply.”

“Supply?” John muttered. “This…this is all about omega-related drugs? You’re nothing but a drug dealer?”

“Nothing but? That’s a fine way to describe what I have accomplished. I have engineered the subordination of an entire gender on two continents—soon to be three, by the way. I have made them desperate for drugs they used only casually in the past, I have choked off all sources and now I will become sole supplier to the illegal market. And while the governments who so ignorantly enacted these laws blindly carry out a ‘war on drugs’ that inflates my prices and increases demand, I will be in a position to control some of the most powerful people on earth.”

“Omegas haven’t got any power,” John interrupted. “If they did, we wouldn’t have these stupid laws in the first place.”

Jim turned and patted John’s cheek. “You are so funny. Really, Sherlock, how do you put up with such an ape?”

Sherlock offered no response, his mind clicking over the size of the room, the number of men Moriarty would have brought with him, where they were likely to be positioned and how soon Greg would be leading the police (aided by Mycroft’s minions) to their rescue.

“You are so short-sighted,” Jim said to John. “Typical alpha thinking. While your kind were busy trying to fill the planet with your progeny, the breeders were working their way into your hallowed halls of power. Under cover, of course. Senators, judges, MPs, ministers, spooks of every stripe and even…”

“The President of the United States,” Sherlock interjected.

Jim returned his attention to Sherlock. “Yes. It's remarkable what self-loathing will drive an ambitious man to do--too bad he didn't count on the House cutting off his drug supply. Now...I own him." Jim rolled his head to one side. "Excellent. Thank you. I knew you would see. I knew you would understand.” He leaned in as though he might kiss Sherlock, but he hesitated. “No. There’ll be time for that later. For now, down to business.”

Jim started to take a step back—John pounced on the opportunity. He grabbed the man and put him in a chokehold.

“Sherlock, run! Now! Go!”

Sherlock flinched, conflicted by his instinctive response to John’s voice and his will to stay, to fight, to save John.

“GO!”

“Oh, this is fun!” Jim choked out, hardly struggling in John’s grasp. “What a good ape you are! But so transparent! Silly alpha.”

Several red laser points appeared, two in the centre of Sherlock’s forehead and four in the centre of his chest. John swore, instantly releasing Moriarty. He backed away, heaving, fists clenched with rage as Sherlock slowly lowered his weapon.

Jim spun on his heel and addressed John. “Good boy. Now why don’t you sit quietly and let the clever people get on with things.”

Jim strolled back out across the pool deck, casually shouldering John out of his way. “It’s time to choose, Sherlock. I can’t have you meddling in my plans. I just can’t. But you’re too perfect to destroy.”

Sherlock smile was cold and didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m terribly flattered.”

“So I am offering you the opportunity to emancipate yourself from this tedious existence. You will never want for heat suppressants and birth control—you will have complete autonomy over your body. Better than that, you will have access to the most interesting puzzles I can supply. I promise you, you will never be bored again.”

“No.”

Jim looked puzzled. “Really? Just like that? No?”

“You’re mad.”

“Stating the obvious, but that’s not the reason, is it?”

Sherlock flushed.

“Time’s wasting, my pretty. And any time now, you’re going to start to stink.”

John’s head came up, meeting Sherlock’s now slightly worried eyes.

Jim looked from one to other. “How touching. Yes, that’s right—he’s about to go into heat. You both knew it was coming, of course. And I suppose stress _may_ have pushed things ahead by a few days.” He covered his wicked grin with one hand. “Ooops!”

Sherlock kept his gaze focussed on John, willing him to understand what he was about to do. Somehow, though, John could tell. He started shaking his head.

“No! Sherlock don’t!”

“Fine,” Sherlock said abruptly, addressing himself to Jim. “You win. I’ll go with you. On one condition.”

“Let me guess,” Jim chuckled. “Would it be that I let the ape go?”

Sherlock nodded once. Jim sighed.

“Terribly sentimental, but if that’s the deal breaker…” Jim smiled. “You leave with me now and I guarantee you no harm will come to your precious doctor.”

“Don’t try to trick me,” Sherlock sneered. “I’m not going anywhere until I know he’s safe.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Very well.” He produced a small, black object from his pocket. He looked at it for a moment before tossing it to Sherlock, who caught it handily. “That’s the detonator. If you want to help him off with his coat, I’ll wait.”

Sherlock crossed cautiously to where John stood, aware of the laser sights still tracking him. He watched Jim carefully, shoving his own weapon into his jacket pocket to reach up and begin tugging the parka from John’s shoulders.

“No,” John huffed softly as Sherlock undressed him. “You can’t do this. I won’t let you do this. I’ll kill him.”

“John, I need you to focus. I know you’re a bit ramped up, so it’s hard to think,” Sherlock said calmly. “There are several weapons pointed in my direction. You know we have no way out.”

“Why didn’t you run?” John asked helplessly.

Sherlock’s eyes met his and held for a moment. He cocked his head to the side. “Is it not obvious?”

John studied the man carefully, his eyes widening as realization dawned. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as Sherlock knelt in front of him and began undoing the straps holding the explosives in place. He looked down with pure joy, his rage ebbing. “You love me?”

“Of course I do, you idiot,” Sherlock sighed.

“Well, you haven’t exactly made that clear,” John complained.

“I am a complex being, John,” Sherlock said softly, standing again. When they were face to face, he took John’s hand, hidden from Jim’s sight between them. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll find you.”

Sherlock grinned. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.” He glanced at Jim over John’s shoulder. “And, John, when you do find me?”

“Yes?”

Sherlock met his gaze steadily once more. “I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry--had to make a small edit. Something I thought I'd included but forgot, which left a bit of a logic gap...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A narrow escape, a return to Coventry Court and a whole lotta lovin'.

It was all a blur, really.

Sherlock had just started to walk toward Jim, the laser sights still trained on him, when he heard the very faint sound of a helicopter rotor. He schooled himself not to respond until…

Glass shattered as the SAS and police armed response unit entered the building on the second floor.

Sherlock thought he was moving quickly, but the body slamming into him took him by surprise. He was propelled sideways into the water, landing hard with John wrapped around him. They sank, clinging together as bullets slithered into the water on all sides and almost immediately disintegrated.*

Time slowed; it felt as though they were underwater for hours (Sherlock thought his lungs would burst), but in fact it was a matter of seconds until they looked up and saw a familiar face through the churning pool water. John dragged them back to the surface, where they both gasped and sputtered a positive response to Lestrade’s question about their well-being.

“Right—back soon,” the man said with a quick nod. He’d disappeared along with a handful of Mycroft’s best.

John held on to the side of the pool, his arm wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s body. They were locked together, but Sherlock wasn’t struggling to get free. He stared at John for a moment and then… he turned his head and bared his throat.

John knew he was growling. He didn’t care. The beautiful scent emanating from his omega was rapidly short-circuiting his brain. He nosed the soggy shirt collar out of the way, buried his face in the wet skin and immediately sank his teeth into the soft flesh.

Sherlock gasped at the pain that quickly faded only to be replaced by a fluttering heat blooming in his lower abdomen. He angled his head to allow his alpha better access to the spot he was suckling. Later, when his alpha knotted him for the first time, John would bite him again. And they would be bonded for life.

He hummed happily as the very first symptoms of his heat began to appear. He held tight to John and let the drowsiness claim him.

Everything was going to be just fine.

____________________

“JOHN!!”

“Right here, sweetheart.”

“I can’t—can’t wait to get to the house. Please make it stop. Please, John.”

John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s damp curls, nestled into his shoulder. They were tucked safely into Mycroft’s car, speeding toward Coventry Court, wrapped in the terrycloth robes they’d borrowed from the pool after abandoning their wet clothes. Lestrade had hustled them away from the scene before anyone could see (or smell) them and bundled them into the waiting saloon, throwing a couple of shock blankets in behind them.

“Though I’m going to guess you won’t need them,” he’d teased, slamming the door and pounding on the roof once to signal the driver.

John had immediately pulled Sherlock into his lap and continued scenting him, gratified by the contented noises the man made as he burrowed against John’s body.

Though Sherlock’s heat hadn’t been far advanced when they left, the stress response that had brought it on early had sped things along more quickly than either of them expected. John had been soothing, trying to hold on to the last three firing neurons he had. He’d explained that there was something very important at the house. Something they needed.

And he’d pointed out to Sherlock that they did _not_ want to bond in his brother’s car.

Now, however, he wasn’t at all certain either of them would make it. Sherlock had become almost molten. He was sprawled across John’s lap, robe parted and riding up to expose his glistening thighs and hard cock.

“We have to wait, Sherlock,” John moaned. “Have to. Have to…”

“Why?” Sherlock lapped at John’s neck, one hand roaming under the gaping robe to smooth over John’s chest. “Why? John, I need…I need…” His hand tugged at the belt loosely holding the robe closed. He reached under and cupped John’s rock-hard cock. “This. I want this inside of me.” He stroked and John began to fracture.

“Fuck, oh, yes, Sherlock,” John dragged his mouth over Sherlock’s. “I’ll give it to you soon. I promise. Fill you up, make it better. Knot you. Promise.”

The last shred of truly coherent thought John had went something like, _“I’m babbling. I sound like a porn film. Shit.”_

Sherlock struggled up and rearranged himself so he was facing John. He threw one leg over his alpha’s lap and straddled him, biting his lip as he drew the edges of his robe apart. He grabbed at John’s hands and tugged them under the edges of the long, white terry cocoon to place them on his bottom. He covered John’s mouth in a wet, open-mouthed kiss as he ground his saturated body down into the man’s lap.

John sucked the man’s scent into his lungs, desperate for more of him. “Jes—Sherlock. Smell, fuck, edible. God.”

Sherlock dropped his brow to John’s whimpering just a little. “Please, John. It _aches_.”

John slid his fingers into the slick cleft of his omega’s arse. He rubbed around the swollen opening. “Shhh. S’okay. I’ve got you.” He tested the entrance, finding it already loosened and more than well lubricated enough for penetration. Sherlock was ready.

Sherlock moaned as John slid one finger home and crooked it immediately to locate the first of his omega’s sensitive glands.

“JOHN!”

Head thrown back and back arched as he was impaled on John’s hand, Sherlock was every inch the sexual fantasy John had always imagined he would be. “Fuck, you are so beautiful. So—oh, god…” Sherlock tugged on John’s cock, fingertips accidentally stimulating the bundle of nerves on the underside. “There, oh, christ, there. Again. Again.”

Sherlock obliged, rubbing the head of John’s alpha prick as John continued to finger fuck him. “Yes, John, harder. More. Need more.” He inhaled sharply as John withdrew his finger and replaced it with three, burying them as deeply as possible. He withdrew and plunged in again, and again. Sherlock keened as John found the beginning of his vaginal opening, losing his ability to work John’s cock as his entire body focussed on the need to be penetrated. “FUCK ME!!!”

The car slowed. John glanced up to see the familiar country house. “Thank GOD!!.”

He quickly wrapped a shock blanket around his weakened mate, gathered the man against him and stomped across the gravel. He had no thought for his own state of undress as Sherlock clung to his shoulders. He had no care for the gardeners who had not yet been informed that their services wouldn’t be needed today.

John punched in the security code, kicked the door open and slammed it behind him. He set Sherlock on the floor in a graceless, half-naked puddle as he spun to re-set the alarm.

“Hurry, please,” Sherlock begged.

John growled his own need, noting the cardboard box on the round oak table in the centre of the entry hall. He grabbed it, swept his omega back up and headed for the nearest space he knew would be suitable for their purposes.

He threw the door to the grey study wide and set Sherlock on the sofa. He stepped into the adjoining washroom and returned with a glass of water, handing it to his dazed mate. Sherlock had shed his robe; John did likewise as he tore into the box. As promised, it had been made into capsules, ready and bottled for Sherlock’s use. John struggled with the childproof cap for a moment before giving up—he tore the plastic off with his teeth.

He shook one capsule loose and held it out to Sherlock. “Take this.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “What…?”

“Birth control. Keep the zygote from impla—just fucking TAKE IT!”

Sherlock swallowed quickly and washed it down with a large sip of water. He had barely got it down before John was on him.

The glass went flying as John dragged him to the floor. Sherlock was pliant as John slid him on to his belly and stuffed a sofa cushion beneath his hips. He parted the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse and stroked over the hole with the head of his cock.

Sherlock moaned and pushed back into the sensation.

Gratified, John sank his throbbing cock into the heat and promise of his omega’s body.

Sherlock shouted something incoherent; his passage contracted around the intrusion. John slowed, remembering that Sherlock had never had an alpha—had anyone—inside him. He eased in, relishing the drag of the tight muscles, the slick glide of Sherlock’s body around him. It was so good. So very, very good.

John dropped his head to the man’s back as he reached the place on his cock where the knot was preparing to swell. He pulled back slowly.

“No!” Sherlock’s head came around in panic. “No—more!! John, don’t…” He reached back around to grasp at John’s thighs.

“Shhhh, not leaving. Going to make it better,” John soothed, sliding back in with just a little more force.

“Oh, John, yes,” Sherlock sighed. “My John.”

“Always. Always your John,” John affirmed, withdrawing and plunging back in again. He repeated the action several more times slowly, allowing Sherlock to become used to the sensation.

Within minutes, the omega was writhing beneath him, driving back into each thrust. John increased the pace, his hips slapping against the man’s lovely, rounded buttocks.

“Harder!” Sherlock snarled.

“Your wish,” John growled, pounding into the man so hard they slid forward on the carpet.

“John, I feel…I have to …”

John could see Sherlock’s hand disappear beneath him. He tugged on his omega’s hips, lifting him enough to allow him access to his cock.

Sherlock sighed as he began to stroke himself with John’s thrusts. “Oh, fuck, John, I’m going to come. Are you? Come inside me. I want to feel you come inside me.”

John pumped harder, his knot ready to completely form. Sherlock began to shudder as his orgasm approached. John thrust forward one last time, popping the knot through the tight rings of muscle and seating himself fully in his omega.

Sherlock screamed—or something very near to it—as the knot began to swell inside him and he came, shooting all over the cushion and the floor. He shook as John’s body pressed his inner walls, stretching him beyond anything he had ever felt before. “Too big—take it out. John it hurts!”

“Relax, sweetheart. Gets better. Promise. Oh, god…” Sherlock had reached back to feel the place where John’s knot had pulled the normally puckered flesh smooth. He touched the abused hole gently, inadvertently grazing John’s very heavy balls.

“Oh, Sherlock, oh, fuck. Yes! Yes!” John bucked forward as his first orgasm hit. He mumbled nonsense as he flooded the inside of his lover’s body. He slid forward to cover Sherlock’s back and sank his teeth back into the soft flesh of his neck. John suckled gently, inhaling his omega’s scent as he bound them together.

When the first wave eased some minutes later, John released the bite with tender kisses, suddenly aware of Sherlock beginning to shiver beneath him.

“ _John_.”

“Are you all right?”

Sherlock nodded weakly. John wrapped both arms around him and rolled them on to their sides. Sherlock gasped a little as the knot tugged at him.

“Sorry, love. Sorry,” John whispered, placing gentle kisses on the man’s shoulders. “Just relax now. Rest.”

Sherlock pressed back into John’s chest.

“Is it always like that?”

John chuckled. “Don’t know, love. Never been bonded before.”

“You’re so big,” Sherlock marvelled. “I didn’t know.”

“Am I hurting yo—oh, fuck…” John groaned as another orgasm hit. He buried his nose in Sherlock’s neck as his body pulsed inside the man’s body below.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock sighed.

“Does that feel better?”

“Yes…” Sherlock’s breathing hitched. John slid a hand down and gently stroked the man’s cock.

“You’re getting hard again already,” he teased. “We’re definitely not going to get much sleep.”

“John, the pills,” Sherlock asked quickly. “Where did they come from?”

“Mate of mine from Afghanistan—Canadian medic. They’re still legal there. He broke them down and sent them as body powder. Mycroft helped get it through, I think. And had them made back into capsules.”

“You did all that for me?”

“I would do anything for you.”

“But I pushed you away.”

“You were scared. Understandable. You have more to lose.”

“I wanted you so much. I…” Sherlock faltered. “I love you.”

“I know,” John kissed the back of his head. “I thought I should have these on hand just in case you ever did figure that out.”

“Oh. Well, good.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Mythbusters said it would probably be so, and I believe them :)


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Ending Alert. Bring your insulin.

Mycroft was waiting outside for John and Sherlock as they arrived at Coventry Court. He’d invited them to join him and Greg for lunch in the conservatory, not letting on that he had an ulterior motive for their meeting.

John leapt out first, holding the door for Sherlock…who was still on his phone.

“For goodness sake,” Mycroft sighed. “You are not working through lunch, Sherlock. We have things to discuss.”

“I have a case.”

“You always have a case.”

“Hmmmm.”

Sherlock allowed John to guide him into the house, never looking up from the screen. He transferred the mobile from one hand to the other as John removed his coat for him and hung it up.

“There they are,” Greg called, striding in from the kitchen. “John—you look fit. Honeymoon must have agreed with you.”

“Indeed it did.” John smiled.

“It was hot,” Sherlock interjected.

“It was the West Indies, love,” John chuckled. “It’s supposed to be hot.”

“So three months in and now you’re officially bonded. How does it feel to be legally legal, and all that?” Greg asked as they walked through to the back of the house.

“Good, I guess,” John replied, with a bit of a shrug. “Not much different, really. We still can’t get Sherlock’s drugs from the chemist unless we produce a child, but at least the government can’t bother us. And Sherlock is safe. That’s the main thing.”

Greg glanced up at the detective just catching the sidelong look the man gave his mate. Sherlock realized he’d been spotted and immediately returned to his mobile. His cheeks were a little pink, though. Greg grinned.

“No talk of that, then?”

“Of what?”

“A child. Or two. Or three.” Greg watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, somewhat enjoying the pained expression on his brother-in-law’s face.

“What? No, no,” John insisted. “We—uh—we just don’t think…that is, Sherlock doesn’t—I don’t know…” The doctor sighed. “We’re not ready, all right?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, oh, ‘course. Plenty of time for that sort of thing,” he slapped John on the back as they entered the steel and glass enclosure on the back of the house.

Sherlock flopped into one of the overstuffed dining chairs and drew his knees up. John sat in the chair next to him and dropped his arm along the back of Sherlock’s seat. He was still getting used to being bonded, but he did very much enjoy the way the taller man leaned toward him unconsciously. It was comforting.

Mycroft entered the room with cocktails. Greg watched Sherlock carefully as the Pimm’s cups were distributed.

Sherlock eyed the tall glass over the edge of his phone, sinking a bit deeper into his chair and pressing in toward John’s body beside him.

Greg chuckled as Mycroft sat beside him. “What is it, my darling?”

“Nothing, pet. An inside joke, eh, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blushed to the roots of his hair and shook his head. John glanced down at him.

“What’s going on with you?” John asked finally. “You’ve hardly spoken to me all day. And could you please put that down while we’re here?”

Sherlock dropped the phone immediately, straightening and launching a verbal barrage. “What is the important news, brother dear? What brings us all out into the country on a Sunday afternoon, besides the bees?”

“Gregory and I asked you for two reasons,” Mycroft began patiently. “First, we wanted you to know we have decided to cede ownership of Coventry Court to you and John.”

“Well, that’s…brilliant,” John sputtered.

“Is it?” Sherlock asked warily, eyeing his bondmate.

“Of course it is! I love it here,” John enthused. “Lovely place for weekends. And we could make this our retirement. I could fuss with the roses and you could tend to your bees.”

Sherlock’s smile was tight as he nodded.

“You’re not pleased,” Mycroft addressed his brother, frowning.

“Now, My, don’t jump to conclusions,” Greg interceded. “It’s just a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, that’s it. I just wasn’t expecting it is all.”

“No,” Greg agreed. “I think Sherlock might be expecting something altogether different.”

Sherlock scowled at the man now. John watched this interchange with a furrowed brow, taking a sip of his drink.

“Well you did ask,” Mycroft huffed. “Gregory and I are much better suited to the city, and now that you are settled the house should belong to you. So—done and dusted.”

“And we appreciate it,” John said. “Thank you. It’s very generous.”

Sherlock was staring at his lap when John handed his glass to him. He stared at the cocktail for a moment, then at John, before smiling and taking it. He fiddled with it nervously as his brother resumed speaking.

“The other item is more or less a government matter, and is no longer of as much concern to you, but nevertheless: there will be an election within the next three months. Deals have been struck. I cannot say more, other than to assure you that the Real Rape law will be a thing of the past before New Year.”

“Excellent news,” John said firmly. “Really, really good news. Isn’t it Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded dumbly, biting his lip. John watched him, puzzled.

“I thought you’d be pleased. Means you’ll be able to go back on heat suppressants.”

“But you won’t want that,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet.

“I told you,” John began. “I want whatever is going to make you happy. That’s the deal.”

“What if I don’t want to suppress my heats? Or mask my scent? Or—” Sherlock bit off the last with a helpless look at Greg.

Finally taking pity, Greg nudged Mycroft. “We should give them a moment, pet.”

“What? Why?” Mycroft looked irritated. He did hate not being the first to notice things.

“Just come on,” Greg urged, standing and tugging on his husband’s hand.

Mycroft followed him, with a final look back over his shoulder at John and Sherlock. “OH!” he exclaimed as they reached the door. Greg pulled him forward and out of sight.

“Out with it,” John said softly, taking Sherlock's glass and setting it on the table with his own. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t think I wanted this.”

“Which bit?”

“Any of it,” Sherlock replied with a wave of his hand. “Sex, you, bonding, life at the country house, a bab—” He bit his lip as John’s eyes widened.

“Sherlock, what are you telling me?” John turned in his chair, grasping both the man’s hands. “Are you saying you want to have children?”

“No,” Sherlock sniffed. “I’m saying I _am_ having children. Or a child. At least one. At the moment.”

John’s mouth fell open. The silence was painful—Sherlock began to panic a little.

“John?”

The man jumped from his chair, tipping it over behind him as he threw his hands in the air and hooted. He grabbed at Sherlock and drew the man to his feet.

“A baby?!!” he shouted. “Sherlock, my love—a baby?!?” He dragged the taller man into his arms and held him tight. “My god I love you. Oh, wait…holding you too tight. Am I?” He backed away, holding only Sherlock’s hands. He stared at the still-flat belly.

“John, I wanted to tell you, but I wasn’t sure if this was what you wanted,” Sherlock started. “I should have talked to you first, but it just happened.”

“You should sit,” John rambled, setting Sherlock back down in his chair. “Do you need your feet up? No, I suppose it’s too soon for that. What about some tea? Can you have tea?”

“John?” Sherlock watched his mate. “Can you please…just sit? You’re making me dizzy.”

John dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock. He laid a gentle hand over his mate’s abdomen. “I can’t believe this,” he whispered. He leaned in and inhaled. “You _do_ smell different. It’s so subtle, though—I didn’t notice.”

“The scent change will become stronger, or so the doctor tells me,” Sherlock offered. “So you’re pleased?”

“Pleased?” John was incredulous. “I am over the moon.”

Sherlock smiled, really smiled, as he caressed John’s slightly stubbled cheek. “I thought you might be angry that I skipped my birth control pills last heat without discussing it.”

John shrugged. “Your body, my love. If you are disposed to sharing this with me, I will happily accept and thank you every single day.”

“I don’t know how this is all going to work,” Sherlock began.

“We’ll find a way, Sherlock. I don’t care what I have to do,” John vowed. “You are the most important thing in my life and you are about to give me the best gift I have ever been given. Ask me to fetch you a star—I think I might just be able to do it today.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You are stupidly sentimental,” he muttered, sniffling.

“Yes, but only for you.”

Sherlock met John halfway for the kiss, tangling his fingers in the short sandy hair. John pressed his hand gently against the space where their child was growing. Sherlock’s hand joined it there, twining their fingers together.

From the library window overlooking the conservatory, Mycroft watched in awe as his reckless, impulsive, difficult younger brother curled into the arms of his bondmate—now the father of Mycroft’s future niece or nephew—and cried. If he’d been a different man, he, too, might have been susceptible.

Fortunately, he had a husband for that.

“Tissue, my darling?” He wrapped his arm tightly around Greg’s shoulders as the man wiped at his eyes.

“Thank you,” Greg snuffled. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it, My?”

“It is.”

“Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg. Did you ever think…?”

“No. I didn’t,” Mycroft puzzled. “One hopes, of course.”

“Of course.” Greg leaned up and kissed his husband’s cheek. “Good, well, let’s go and share in the good news.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed. “Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this story's shortcomings are entirely my responsibility (I don't have a beta or brit-picker, so please forgive the errors!). And I own nothing and receive no cash--no copyright infringement is intended.


	11. Cover art

**Author's Note:**

> OK, this was something of an experiment. Hopefully I haven't offended all Americans and Brits simultaneously. I was inspired by all the rape and reproduction discussions that took place during the American presidential election. Anyway, this probably should have been more of a serious allegory...in the hands of another writer, it might have been. But it is omegaverse. And I have HED (Happy Ending Disease). I hope you enjoy it all the same.
> 
> Now translated into Russian! http://ficbook.net/readfic/1676799

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [乡间小屋](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1433044) by [rewecca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewecca/pseuds/rewecca)




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